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"Lying low, or planning?" I wondered aloud.
"We won't know until we know," Jonah said, clearing his throat as if preparing for something. "If you want to speed things up, we could bug his house."
That had been a common refrain by Luc and Jonah. They were convinced they could get in, bug McKetrick's Lincoln Park house, and get out. Considering the regularity of McKetrick's schedule - he was a city employee, after all - there was merit to the idea. But the risk? Considerable, which was why Ethan and Noah, the head of the Red Guard, rejected the idea.
"We aren't the CIA," I reminded him. "And if we got caught, the city would turn against us Watergate style. There's too much risk."
"So we wait," Jonah said. "Which is awesome, because you're such a patient person."
I wasn't, and he really knew me too well. "He won't stay silent forever. He has too much ego for that."
The cars in front of me had slowed to a virtual standstill, and I knew better than to chat about supernatural drama while navigating gridlock. "Jonah, traffic's picking up. I'm gonna run. I'll keep you posted on any excitement with Mallory."
"Do that," he said. "But I will not be advising you on any excitement on my end."
Thank God for small miracles.
-
Wicker Park was northwest of Hyde Park, and the traffic didn't ease up again even as I pulled into the neighborhood. Even in the dark of February, Division Street, Wicker Park's main drag, was hopping. Chicagoans moved between bars and restaurants, climbing over and around the mountains of snow piled high by snowplows, darkened with street grit, and thickened by freezing temps.
I drove around a bit to find a parking space - a task that probably consumed twenty to thirty percent of a Chicagoan's waking hours - and nudged the Volvo into it.
I looked for a moment at the katana in the passenger's seat. I didn't like the idea of leaving it in the car, but nor did I think it would be welcome in the mecca of Chicago-style deep-dish I was heading to.
"I can always come back for you," I murmured, slipping the sword between the center console and the passenger seat to make its presence a little less obvious. I took a final calming breath, then climbed out of the car and locked it behind me.
Compacted snow crunched beneath my feet as I walked toward Saul's, my favorite pizza spot in Chicago or outside it. I'd done my time in New York, and although I could appreciate the depth of New Yorkers' love for floppy pizza, I didn't understand it.
Bells attached to a red leather strap hung on the door, and they jingled when I opened it, a gust of wind sneaking in behind. I pushed the door shut again, shrinking back a bit from the growly expression on the face of the man behind the counter.
"You tryin' to let winter in here?"
I pushed off the door and headed across worn linoleum to the counter, which had been covered in the 1970s by faux-wood-grain plastic, presumably to add an "authentic" pizzeria feel.
"If I was trying," I said, "you'd know it." I put my elbows on the counter and took a good, hard look at the man behind it. He was older, late sixties, with a thick head of black hair and eyes that sparkled mischievously. He wore a heather gray sweatshirt with SAUL'S PIZZA across the front in faded red letters.
He was the only person in the small room - which served as the way station for orders and pickups, and led to the small dining room beyond.
He scowled, caterpillar eyebrows drawing together. "You got a smart mouth."
"Always," I said, smiling back at him. "It's good to see you, Saul. How's business?"
His expression softened. "Don't get nearly as many orders for cream cheese and double bacon as I used to." He looked me over. "You look good, kid."
My eyes cramped uncomfortably, the warning signal that sentimental tears were about to flow. But I held them back. "You look good, too."
"Things change, don't they?"
I glanced around at the restaurant, with its dusty decor and hanging menu board slatted with movable plastic letters. Mismatched plastic chairs with metal legs sat along one wall. The counter was worn from thousands of hands, elbows, credit cards, and pizza boxes, and the room smelled like dust, plastic, and garlic.
"Do they change?" I wondered aloud with a grin. "I'm pretty sure that poster for Cool Hand Luke's been there since the movie came out."
Saul's eyes narrowed. This was always dangerous territory. "Cool Hand Luke is a classic piece of American cinema, Ms. Know It All. It was nominated for five - "
"Academy Awards, I know." I smiled at him - it was nice to hear that familiar nickname again and listen to the familiar argument - and gestured toward the dining room. "Is Ms. Blue Hair in?"
"She's at your booth," he said, then checked the old Schlitz clock on the wall behind him. "Pizza should be up in ten."
"Thank you, Saul. It's nice to be back."
"Shouldn't have waited so long in the first place," he grumbled, and headed into the kitchen.
-
Mallory Delancey Carmichael, recently designated and discredited sorceress, sat in a plastic booth, the kind with molded seat depressions. She wore a knitted cap with earflaps and a pouf of yarn at the top. The cap was pulled down low over her blue hair, which darkened to a deep indigo at the bottom of the complicated braid that sat on her shoulder. She wore a jacket over a sweater over a button-down top; the sleeves of the sweater ending in bell-like shapes that nearly reached the tips of her fingers.
She looked up when I walked in, and I was relieved to see she was looking more and more like her old self. Mallory was pink cheeked, with classically pretty features. Her eyes were big and blue, and her lips were a perfect cupid's bow.
The restaurant was packed, so I was lucky she'd nabbed a seat. I climbed into the booth across from her, pulling off my gloves and putting them on the seat beside me.
"Cold out there tonight."
"Freezing," she agreed. "I like your coat."
"Thanks," I said, unbuttoning it, then adding it to the stack on the seat. "It was a gift." And since I was proud of them, I stuck out a leg beside the booth and showed off my boots.
"Hello, gorgeous," Mallory quietly said, sliding a finger along one leathered shin. "If he's buying you gear like that, I certainly hope you're sleeping with him."
She looked back at me and grinned, and I saw - for a moment - the old Mallory in her eyes. Relief rushed through my chest.
"He didn't buy them, but he has no complaints." I cleared my throat nervously, preparing for the confession I hadn't yet made to her. "I don't know if you heard, but we're actually living together. I moved into his apartments."
